


Past Stops Now

by Sirca



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 06:37:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8239553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sirca/pseuds/Sirca
Summary: Illidan’s fantasies ran deep and wild. In the darkness of his prison there wasn't much else for him to do.





	

**Author's Note:**

> No excuses for this. Any mistakes made here are purely my own.

Illidan’s fantasies ran deep and wild. In the darkness of his prison there wasn't much else for him to do. Pacing, back and forth, sitting on the cool stones, testing his magic against those bonds that held him—it grew dull, but his anger remained a burning coil in the pit of his stomach.

He thought of his twin brother. Malfurion had long since stopped visiting the imprisoned blight on his name. The arrogance of wanting him to admit that Illidan had been mistaken, as if it would make all of the long years vanish, made him seethe.

And Maiev. The Warden of his cage. She would come to make sure he hadn’t escaped with fervor reserved only for the priestess of Elune. Her sneer, her admission that he would never leave that cell, also served to fuel his anger.

Then, there was Tyrande. She was not so different than Malfurion, except for the fact that she would not even dare to look upon Illidan. Her reaction stung more deeply than the rest. Where Malfurion and Maiev reminded him of why he was here, Tyrande was content to simply ignore him.

When he freed himself—there was no if, he would free himself—his retribution would be swift and bloody. They had caged him like an animal, and so an animal he would be. He thinks of the many scathing words that he would say, and the ensuing battle. Cutting down Maiev would be his first order of business. Then he would seek out his traitorous brother. Finally, he would savor what he would say to Tyrande Whisperwind. It was one of the few fantasies that gave him legitimate calm.

Perhaps she would hunt him, bow string taunt as she loosened another arrow. It would graze his ear, another nick to match so many other battle scars.

“Illidan!” she would roar. His name upon her lips would never have sounded sweeter, or more deadly. He felt his own curl in kind.

Another arrow loosened. She was close now. He could hear her string draw once more. The following arrow came dangerously close to his heart, and he managed to knock it aside with one of his glaives.

Her fury at his escape is only matched by his own. Thousands of years spent stewing in nothing but his thoughts makes him swing when she charges and brings her bow down on him. She spun away, firing another arrow that he narrowly blocked.

“All those years spent in darkness. You will pay for what you’ve done to me, Tyrande,” Illidan would say.

Her eyes would flash defiantly, giving Illidan the indication that only one elf would be paying this day. Him!

Their attacks were quick and furious. It seemed as though Illidan wasn’t the only one harboring feelings for the other. She managed to slip a foot behind his at the last moment. He stumbled back and she followed mercilessly, one of the arrows from her quiver drawn and pressed to his jugular.

But what would have been a killing blow stopped short. Illidan could not, would not imagine a world where he had taken Tyrande's life. If it had to end, it would be with her arrows embedded in him.

But instead of killing him, she did something else. Something entirely unexpected.

Her lips pressed to his in a rough kiss.

The strength of his emotions momentarily stunned him. He should have known. He’s _always_ known. His love for Tyrande still burns as hotly as it had so very long ago—hotter still than his anger could ever be.

“Tyrande.”

He returned her kiss, his fingers tangling into her hair. How he’d longed to do just this, for so very long. Her sharp teeth nipped at his lips, and the resounding sound in his throat is a testament to just how pleased he was. His tongue chased her when she made to pull away, pursuing her as she had in the forest. Illidan was starved for her touch, half wild as he moved his hands down to her neck, her shoulders, skimming along until they found purchase on her hips.

Tyrande gave him what he wanted. Hands on the rune etched expanse of his chest. Hands skimming across the muscles of his waist. Lower. He growled into her mouth.

When they came together, with the fabric of her pristine white dress rucked up against her hips, crumpled in his hands, it is with a feeling that Illidan could not easily identify. He had always wanted her, that much was certain. But the burning in his chest was not desire alone. He stuttered over her name, and she his. He wanted to memorize the way her eyes, bright like the light of the moon, looked down upon him with an emotion no one had ever given him before.

Too soon it was over. Too soon was he alone, fever hot from his wandering mind with nothing but the cold stones beneath him. The Wardens would come soon, his only visitors. Tyrande would remain far away from him.

  
***

  
Illidan’s spirit lingered, even after his demise. Trapped somewhere between his past life and the next, he was certain. If ever he had called into question his true demonic nature, it was undeniable now. He had achieved a terrible kind of immortality, one where his soul was eternally anchored to a dead body. The Wardens would be content to let him linger as such a wretched creature, as if the tiny confines of his former prison weren’t enough.

His only solace was escaping into his mind’s eye once more. He dreamed of a world without the Legion. He dreamed of Azeroth as it could have been. He dreamed of something peaceful.

He felt light, curled onto the bed he remembered from his days as a younger elf. Suramar’s sounds of peaceful, burbling water only ever so often punctuated by distant conversation, drifted through his window. The sun hung low, and stars already dotted the sky. A hand slipped in to his, fingers interlaced.

He rolled over with great effort, still hazy from waking. Tyrande smiled up at him, her blue hair an unruly mess. Still, she was far lovelier than any moonrise outside his window. She arched up to capture his lips.

Her fingers danced across his cheek, into his hair. He captured it within his own, pulling back from her lips to place a soft kiss into the palm of it. “Would that we could have had this.”

“In another life, perhaps,” Tyrande replied easily, her voice still thick with sleep. He could see it now. He had found a place, somewhere. Not with Malfurion or Cenarius. Perhaps without the Legion’s influence, he could have remained with the Moon Guard. A sentinel against all those who threatened their empire.

He could’ve been allowed to soften with time. His pride tempered, measured. He could’ve been allowed to grow into his own, with her. At once, the roads stretched infinitely in front of him. She, Elune’s chosen, had in turn chosen him. Filled him with a happiness he had never known. Loved ardently and without abandon.

“Do not mourn for what could have been,” she continued, numerous emotions flicking across her face. He recognized them as the same ones as when she freed him from his long imprisonment. Fear. Pity. But still, deep down, _hope_.

Here, now, he would mourn for the life he had never been allowed. When their kisses became something more than just a simple exchange of affection, into something hungry and deeper, he would allow himself one last longing thought. Of taking her, slowly, beneath him, as if there was all the time in the world. She would keen his name, her nails digging in to his back. Her legs gripped around him, finding purchase to elevate herself to the perfect angle. When she came, his name was a desperate prayer on her lips.

They curled around one another again. She smoothed his dark hair from where it had fallen on his brow. “We may still yet have peace such as this, Illidan.”

He shook his head. “No. My time has come and gone.”

She had chosen Malfurion. They had imprisoned him for ten thousand long, painful years. She had only freed him to fight the Burning Legion. Even in that, he had failed. His burdens were now her responsibility.

“Not true.” She broke him of his reverie. Her fingers traced where runic tattoos should have been. His skin seemed foreign to him, unmarred by the demonic changes and scars of war. Then, she drew his chin up, and her eyes met his.

“Let go of this Illidan. Let go…” Her voice changed, sounding as distant as the moon itself, “and come back.”

He woke. Whole. _Alive._

 


End file.
